I Deserve to Be Loved
by Bella1093
Summary: After sitting in the pit of the bunker and left to his own devices, Crowley is suddenly confronted by a part of his past that may explain how Crowley became to be so...Crowley. "Good on you- to figure out that my Hell isn't so much as what or where as much as …who…."
1. Chapter 1

First try at a Supernatural story!

I love this series so much, and have been wanting to write something. I tossed around ideas of stories featuring Castiel, but figured that that might be overdone- then I thought, you know who doesn't get enough attention?

Crowley.

And here we are.

I own nothing.

Enjoy!

-Bella

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><p>Crowley sat in the darkness, his body numb.<p>

The burning sensation of the demonic shackles settled into his skin like salt into boiling water. He dissolved into the pain, enjoyed it even. Crowley had to admit that the Winchester boys were smarter than the credit he gave them. Torture like this, so subtle, so finessed- the slow, agonizing pain of being left with oneself.

Clever.

This proved to the King of Hell that those bumbling, bratty buffoons either knew what they were doing- or knew him well enough to provide this cozy little slice of Hell on Earth.

Fantastic.

The voices began again- the poignant banter, the sardonic snarks, and the anguished cries.

_I DESERVE TO BE LOVED_!

"Oh, shut up!" Crowley told the darkness.

How long had he been in this pit? 2 weeks? 2 months? Not that it mattered. When you rule Hell the concept of time is never anything of consequence. How laughable to think that the Winchesters believed that he would break under these conditions. That he would simply give away all of his children because he was put in time out.

How cute, how quaint, how...

The sound of the large metal door groaning pulled the salesman from his thoughts.

"Is that you, Moose? I thought you'd forgotten about me- and after the lovely time we spent together," Crowley instigated, hoping for a rise out of the baby Winchester. Crowley would have his fun- prisoner or not.

The bookcases that concealed Crowley's play pin swung open to reveal a panel of angry eyes. Dean stood with his arms crossed, face tense, and Holy water visible. To his left stood Castiel, eyebrows furrowed and lips slightly apart, as if he carried with him the constant burden of disbelief. Sam stood to Dean's right, his natural position. His hand twitching, aching to remove Crowley's tongue from his ever smirking mouth.

"Well isn't this a delightful family reunion. You should have warned me, I would have made tea," chided Crowley.

"Shut up, dickhead," replied the elder Winchester, "We have a special surprise for you…and after we give it to you, you are going to tell us everything you know. Everything."

"Oh, really? And what is it that I'm supposed to know?"

"The location of every demon topside," Sam answered, anger etched into the thin line of his lips, "How to kill Abaddon… oh, and how to kill _you_ while you're at it."

Crowley scolded the boys.

"_Tsk, tsk, tsk_, boys. You really think traditional torture or leaving me alone with myself, who by the way is the best company I can imagine, will really break me?"

"No," the steady voice of Castiel stated, "but we brought someone who will."

Crowley furrowed his brow and tilted his head. As he bit his lower lip he quickly rummaged through his mental palace for anyone who could possibly hold intel, power, or anything else that could break him.

Dean gave a short laugh at Crowley's confusion and looked to his partners as he addressed them.

"We should have realized earlier- you don't send three men to do a woman's job," they each took a step to their respective sides with one last knowing and spiteful look at their prisoner.

As the trio parted, a figure appeared from the darkness behind them. If Crowley had a heart, it would sink into the deepest pits of Hell as the outline became clear. A woman stood before him, terse and unmoving. She had wild, disobedient, brown tendrils that cascaded down to her lower back. One could say that she resembled a lioness- sturdy, fierce, and protective. Her figure was robust, and defined. She had unapologetic curves that no man could mistake. Her eyes the color of a copper penny- bright and changing with the light, almost gold to some. Though she appeared young, those eyes appeared to hold the wisdom and burden of many years of existence. Her complexion was pale and soft, as if one touch could make her disappear. She wore dark jeans that hugged her hips and flared at her calves. Her shirt was an emerald silk, which barely caressed her form. Her appearance gave the impression that she would attend a dinner party. Enochian symbols peaked curiously at the man in the chair from the corner of her shirt, disappearing coyly into her collar bone. The woman took a few steps forward and stopped an inch away from the red Devil's trap.

She stared, devoid of emotion.

He stared, filled with unwarranted emotion.

Finally composing himself, somewhat clumsier than usual, he started,

"Well, well, well, the Winchesters are certainly broadening their horizons of what_ Hell _really is," Crowley offered the boys a pointed look, "seems like you've finally got mine pegged. Good on you- to figure out that _my _Hell isn't so much a _what_ or _where_ as much as …who… You know I…"

"Crowley." The woman interrupted. The name on her lips came out tentatively, as if she feared saying it would incite world suffering. Her voice sounded young, much the way she looked. To humans she could be no more than twenty-five, but Crowley knew better.

"Delilah." Crowley countered, "I see you were expelled from Daddy's School for Drones with the rest of the lot."

"So, now that we've allowed for your lovely reunion, would either of you two be so kind as to tell us how you know each other. You know, so we can start getting to the 'rip-the-information-out-of-the-bastard' part?" Dean asserted, gesturing to the man on trial.

"Oh, now that," Crowley said, looking at Delilah with seething resentment, "is quite a story."

Sam sighed his signature sigh and ran his hand through his hair, "I'm going to get some chairs. Looks like this will take a while."

Sam came back moments later and the four other occupants took a seat. Delilah had not spoken one word since she uttered the King's name. She sat, perfectly erect, hands folded on her lap- she was a fortress.

"Well?" said Castiel, who was growing tired of the suspense, it seemed so tedious- so human. Although he had grown to appreciate much that is humanity, he will never appreciate wasted time.

"Let's see….now where to begin, love?" Crowley's question directed toward Delilah, "Oh, yes. I know. What was that little thing you Americans had with us British? That silly fight? Oh yes….the Revolutionary War."

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><p>Keep going? Yeah? Eh?<p>

Review, please!


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2- No Such Thing as Coincidence

_1777- Massachusetts_

Crowley situated himself into his favorite wing-back chair. His red tails hung near the fireplace, drying itself from the damage that the winter snow had brought. He retrieved the copy of _The Man in the Iron Mask_ the previous home owner had carelessly left behind after foolishly dying, and began to read.

_"__Does the open wound in another's breast soften the pain of the gaping wound in our own? Or does the blood which is welling from another man's side staunch that which is pouring from our own? Does the general anguish of our fellow creatures lessen our own private and particular anguish? No, no, each suffers on his own account, each struggles with his own grief, each sheds his own tears." _

"Alright, laddies," he said to his beloved Hell Hounds as he slammed his book closed,"I'm bored. I wonder if there are any crossroads nearby…" the lazy dogs gave little response.

The Hounds perked up at the urgent knock on the door.

"Thank Lucifer," muttered Crowley, "Enter!"

A red coat soldier entered looking emaciated and horrified.

"General Arnold, I have orders. We are to move to Saratoga," the messenger handed a snow soaked envelope over to the General.

"Excellent!" Crowley exclaimed. After reading the note to himself he gave the messenger a once over. The poor lad was close to death- thin, frail, shaking. He was a poor excuse for a human. After a contemplative, then satisfied look Crowley addressed the lad,

"Do me a favor, will you? Go warm yourself by the fire, you look like Death himself. And believe me, he's not a handsome chap."

The boy nodded in appreciation, "Thank you, sir."

As soon as the weary soldier settled by the fire Crowley moseyed over to the window. As he gazed out at winter's rage, as he casually tossed a command over his shoulder.

"Dinnertime, boys. Sick 'im."

The hounds enjoyed a full dinner as they tore the soldier to shreds. During their meal, Crowley sauntered over to the mantle and poured himself a glass of Bourbon. Wartime was a feast for demons. Death, destruction, and desperation hung at every door. The opportunities to make deals and take souls were boundless. Crowley was tallying up quite the sum in the past few months. It gave him pleasure; he felt it build within him. That delirious elation of power, of knowing that a poor soul was at his whim and mercy. His temperament decided its fate, and most days- he was in a fantastic mood. As the hounds quieted their festivities, Crowley paused when he heard the faint and unsettling flutter of wings.

_Shit. _

"Crowley, I presume," said the light, yet but steady voice.

"Oh goodie," Crowley said, his back still turned, "They sent the mini squad."

He laughed as he turned to face his adversary. He was cut short by the woman in front of him. Something about her visage froze him. She wore a lose robe with a sash tied definitively across her waist. She looked like a creation of Michelangelo. The Golden perfection- living and breathing art. Even the Devil had to appreciate beauty. But there was something else, something within her that simply radiated, that appeared to call out the the shred of soul that clung to humanity. Crowley wanted to look away- the sight of her burned him. The pain almost immobilized him. He could not tear away from her- he was entranced and more importantly…intrigued. He found himself fumbling for words, trying to comprehend this personage in front of him.

"I…uh….well…_ahem_ …My, my," Crowley finally admired, "Either your vessel is flawless or your grace is a fierce thing to behold."

"Enough," replied the angel, "I would appreciate it if you put your dogs away."

Crowley cordially complied with lady's demand, "Go play, boys."

The Hounds chased each other into the fire, dragging their dinner with them all the way back into Hell.

With this gesture the Angel continued, "Thank you. Now, are you or are you not the demon, Crowley?"

"I'd like to think of myself as 'King in training'…aren't you a little young to be giving demands?" Crowley jested.

"I am old enough. I take it from your response that the answer is 'yes'," replied the woman.

There was an uncomfortable pause. The angel's countenance remained statuesque. Crowley mused that if he were the romantic type, he would want to draw her. After a few more seconds he looked around, waiting for something…anything to happen.

"Well, as you aren't going to smite me, would you care to introduce yourself?"

"I'm Delilah," replied the angel, "And if you value your pathetic life, you will run. Now."

"And why would I leave this humble abode?"

"Because my brothers are coming to kill you."

"Ah," muttered Crowley.

"Your _talents_ have been noticed by the higher order. You pose a grave threat to Heaven. My brothers are currently on their way to ensure that you no longer cause problems," the factual and aloof nature in which she delivered her news was standard for angel. However, to Crowley, here motives were not. Suspicion rose within him.

"And you're telling me this because…" Crowley poured another glass. Oh, how he loved to be in imminent danger. The thrill excited him. _How fun_, he thought.

"Because you were once human- my Father's most prized creation. I know what and who you once were. For that, I give you the benefit of the doubt. For that, I will protect you…for now."

Crowley stared at the odd little being before him. He had to consciously close his agape mouth before continuing.

"You see, the way I understand t is ...angel _obey _their daddy."

"I believe this is the right choice. Go, Crowley. Atone for your sins."

"Right. Of course." He began to move and gather his belongings, "And uh… who exactly are your dear brothers? By your resonance I would say they are pretty high up? I do love a fancy party."

"I am the direct sister of Michael, Raphael, Uriel, and Gabriel…to name a few of us. I am the youngest of my station."

"Oh, yes. I knew you were no intellectual or solider. Just look at you! You're royalty. A pretty princess. Daddy must've gotten bored with his sons and decided he needed a little girl to play dress up with."

Before Delilah could reply, the house's foundation began to tremble.

"You need to leave," commanded Delilah, "They are coming."

"Don't think this means I owe you anything," said Crowley. He was a business man, but he was not a fool. He knew not to get entangled with an angel, especially a beautiful and forgiving one.

"Of course. Now GO."

A _snap_, then,

"Delilah."

The angel turned to face her brothers.

"Michael," she breathed, her human heart quickened its rhythm, "You needed not come. This is a trivial matter, brothers."

"If it is trivial then where is the demon pest?" chastised Uriel.

"He escaped merely moments after I got here. I only had time to get a glimpse of him. He must have been warned."

Lying was not Delilah's strong suit. She twitched uncomfortably making eye contact with the wooded floor.

_Give me strength_, she prayed, though to who, she didn't know.

"No matter," Michael's cool tone could freeze Hell over, "Father needs us back home. We have more pressing issues than that parasite or the human's petty war."

The arch-angels turned to leave.

"What is that?" asked Gabriel, "Does little sister have an admirer?" the baby brother laughed his usual, jovial laugh.

The small garrison turned to see a lily laying delicately on the rug. Underneath it was a note with eloquent, stately writing.

"Don't be a fool, Gabriel," Delilah scolded, "It must have been left by the human inhabitants Crowley murdered to obtain this property."

"Humans and their sentiment," admonished Uriel, "I will never understand it."

Michael placed a tender hand on Delilah's shoulder, "Don't be long, sister. We don't like you apart from us for so long." The oldest brother held always spoiled his sister. He loved her, perhaps most of all. Delilah always appreciated her brother's protectiveness. Who wouldn't want the General of God in their corner? She felt what might resemble guilt for lying to him.

"Of course, Michael. I will be along shortly."

The sound of escaping wings caused Delilah to fall to the ground and pick up the note. The flower itself was beautiful. Perfect, actually. Its petals soft, and open, its stem erect and proper. She opened the note, which read:

_Until next time, darling Delilah. _

_And there will be a next time. _

_-Samson_

Something deep within her stirred. This feeling made Delilah uncomfortable, nauseous even. She felt terrified, yet thrilled. She felt...she _felt_. Angels were not supposed to feel. Suddenly, she was horrified. She would never speak to this Crowley again. She would let him atone for his sins or she would let her brothers slay him. For is she did not keep her distance…

He would be her Falling.


End file.
